Crescendo
by PlainJaneDoe
Summary: This is not a relationship of love, but one of obsession. A sparring partner in times of mental anguish. A sparring partner intelligent enough to turn the blaring idiocy of the world around them into bearable white noise. Sherlock/Jim.


**A/N: Just thought I would try something different and explore a bit of Sherlock/Jim. Big, BIG thank you to Naomi who went through the entire thing and made looaaadss of edits that made it 100 times better :) And also to the lovely Jai who spurred me on and encouraged me endlessly whilst I wrote it. THIS IS FOR YOU GUYS -dramatic sniff-**

* * *

><p>The thing with Sherlock &amp; Jim is that they are one in the same, yet completely and unequivocally different. Apart they are perfectly shattered pieces of broken glass in a world that will never comprehend them. Together they crescendo in a perfect, catastrophic symphony only they will ever understand. They are opposites and equals, foreign yet familiar, everything and nothing. A bipolar union of the most unusual kind, but somehow it works. It's imperfect and sexy and calamitous and everything in between. And it works.<p>

But it's just sex. Sex and power. Nothing more, nothing less. This is not a relationship of love, but one of obsession. A sparring partner in times of mental anguish. A sparring partner intelligent enough to turn the blaring idiocy of the world around them into bearable white noise.

So when they fuck, it isn't tender; it's desperate and harsh and rough.

"_Bastard_."

Sherlock hadn't been expecting that. He'd let go of Jim's wrist for all but a second and the psychopath slapped him hard across the face. His face burned from the impact, but he was used to it, used to this, and retaliated in the only way he knew how: with a swift punch to the stomach. He quickly balled his fist into the expensive material of Jim's suit whilst Jim was caught off guard and shoved him face first into the kitchen table, one hand twisting his wrist into the small of his back, the other holding on tightly at the nape of his neck.

"Behave yourself," he said sharply, threading his fingers into Jim's hair and pushing him down a little harder to make his point.

Jim gasped into the cool of the table, a wicked grin pulling on his lips, "But darling, I'm a bad boy, and you _love_ bad boys, they make you hard. _I_ make you hard."

Sherlock shuddered, rolling his head on his shoulders as he surveyed the man panting and grinning deviously below him, alight with a divergence of fire-driven emotions that sucked him in, chewed him up and spat him back out within seconds. It left the tips of his fingers twitching as they gripped Jim harder, searching desperately for more control in jet black locks.

The problem with Jim wasn't that he was a psychopath. It wasn't that he was completely insane. It wasn't even that he was a murderer. It was that he could read Sherlock inside and out and he knew it. He knew Sherlock knew it too, and whenever his eyes burned with the fires of his deductive prowess, Sherlock always saw a glimmer of himself smiling deviously back at him. It was what attracted him to Jim in the first place. It was also what made him detest him.

"Shut up." he murmured, rolling his hips forward and pushing Jim harder into the work surface, pulling the hand he had trapped behind Jim's back up with a fluid snap of his wrist before slamming it back down onto the counter top next to his head.

Jim simply turned to face his trapped hand and laughed shortly.

"Come on, you'll have to do better than that, darling," he drawled, stroking his cheek thoughtfully over the counter beneath him, his eyes softening if only for a moment, "I mean it doesn't take a genius like myself to realise you're already _aching_ for it now, does it? So you can throw me around all you like, but you and I both know what you want, so why don't you just take it?"

This struck a nerve within Sherlock. The fact that he could physically _want_ someone like Jim always set off a convulsion of animosity in his stomach. He swallowed it down hard. He knew what this was, so did Jim. It was a battle to win a war and Sherlock desperately wanted the upper hand. He had to have the control back. He always felt extreme discomfort whenever Jim deduced him so perfectly, as if it were obscene for someone to know him so well when the walls around him were built so high.

Jim began laughing. He knew. Of course he knew, as he began to squirm beneath the detective's fingertips, pushing his hips back into Sherlock's as he began his discrete efforts to free the hand Sherlock had forgot about, now trapped underneath him. This hadn't gone unnoticed by Sherlock, however, who quickly worked to reaffirm his dominant status.

He pulled Jim around onto his back, catching the wrist he'd previously forgotten about and pinning it high above Jim's head with his other hand. Jim looked up at his trapped hands intently before staring Sherlock dead in the eyes for the first time that evening. His chest was rising and falling harshly, pulling the buttons of his designer shirt taut with every breath. His eyes were a delicious shade of black as they dragged themselves up and down Sherlock's body, drinking him in in great greedy handfuls.

Sherlock watched in anticipation as a flicker of deviance danced behind Moriarty's eyes. He saw what was going to happen next before it had even happened, but was completely powerless to stop it.

Jim pushed against Sherlock's hands for leverage before digging his heels into the backs of Sherlock's thighs to sit himself up, forcing Sherlock to change tack as his grip on Jim's wrists was lost. He quickly scrambled to take hold of them once more, but soon found arms sliding around his neck as Jim slid himself to the edge of the counter to crush their crotches flush for the first time. A quiet, but very present groan escaped Sherlock's lips as he felt the heat of Jim's arousal rub up against him.

"You're such a horny boy, aren't you, Sherlock? Been waiting for that all evening." Jim's voice danced along his throat before his teeth began to attack Sherlock's jaw, kissing and biting up to his ear. The hand laying contently on the opposite side of his head began to slide up the column of Sherlock's neck and into his curls, gripping them tightly and forcing his head aside to get better access as he ground his hips down just off the edge of the counter and onto Sherlock's aching erection.

Sherlock's hands scrambled for purchase on something, _anything_, as he tried in vain to ignore the concoction of senses he was being affronted with. They eventually fell to Jim's waist and gripped tightly, his index fingers digging into hip bones sitting just above the low waistband of his trousers.

Jim moved his free hand to sit just below where he was laying down his oral assault, stroking Sherlock's chin with his thumb almost soothingly as he made his way down to his lips. Sherlock was temporarily taken aback by this sudden affection, but quickly snapped back to reality as he felt teeth sinking into his bottom lip, breaking the skin and drawing blood that seemed to excite Jim even more, his eyes widening darkly as he stared deviously at the man in front of him.

Sherlock quickly raised his hands to the other man's shoulders and shoved him away abruptly. He glared at Moriarty, but his lust betrayed him. Jim licked Sherlock's own blood away from his lip, all the while staring ferociously into his eyes. Sherlock's cock gave a solid twitch of affirmation that his brain refused to overthrow.

The air between them was hot and damp as Jim's breathing began to slow again, his wry smile burrowing into Sherlock's head. Jim leaned back onto his palms and swung his legs either side of Sherlock's hips as he contemplated the detective in front of him.

"What's wrong, my dear? Don't tell me I surprised you?" Sherlock gritted his teeth against a full body shudder as he watched the man in front of him running his tongue over his teeth, willing him to accept the silent gauntlet he had thrown down between them. "I want you to _bleed_ my name, Sherlock. And you will, trust me; you will."

"Fuck you," Sherlock snarled as he grabbed Jim by the lapels of his shirt and pulled him off the counter, tugging his expensive suit jacket off his shoulders and pushing him to the ground roughly, swinging a leg over his hips the moment he hit the floor.

"Oh!" Jim practically writhed in delight beneath him, a disturbingly salacious grin tugging on his lips "This is more like it! I knew you had it in you."

Sherlock ignored him, instead pulling Jim's shirt free of his trousers before tackling his belt with trembling fingers. He watched Jim's face intently, as Sherlock pulled open his trousers and yanked them down his thighs.

Jim sighed theatrically as he allowed his head to fall back to the floor beneath him, moving to allow Sherlock to pull his limbs free of his trousers for him, leaving him lying flat on his back in just a sweat dampened shirt and a pair of black Armani boxers. Sherlock shed his own jacket before crawling up Jim's body to lie flat on top of him, lips inches away from his ear.

"Don't get too comfortable, sweetheart," he snarled.

"Comfortable? I'm just getting started," Jim drawled before gripping hard on Sherlock's shoulders and throwing him off, climbing on top of him the second he had the opportunity, "You really are too easy, princess, and _soooo_ predictable," he said, casually unbuttoning his shirt before tossing it aside.

Sherlock's breath hitched as he observed the man above him. There was no denying that Jim was unaccountably delicious to behold in the dead of night when the moonlight through the window hit him just right.

It was as if Jim could sense these rarefied thoughts, as his mouth quirked into a crooked smile that sent electric racing down Sherlock's spine and straight to his cock.

Jim loomed over Sherlock, pushing his palms hard onto his chest as he leaned down to press barely-there kisses along the shell of his ear. He pushed his hands up Sherlock's chest until his fingertips came to lie just inside his shirt below his collarbone, stroking along the prominent bones as he spoke and grinding down with his hips.

"Isn't this perfect, darling? The sociopath and the psychopath. But which is which?" he drawled, licking along the curve of Sherlock's ear as his fingers dug into the hollows of his throat.

"You know full well which is which."

"Shut up!" Moriarty snapped suddenly, sitting himself back up, "Psychopath. Sociopath. Psychopath. Sociopath," each word was punctuated with a tug of Sherlock's shirt as Jim undressed him, "so similar, yet so different. So much like you and I, don't you think?"

Sherlock simply scowled up at him, resigning himself to his place on his back.

"Not talking? Oh, what a pity," Jim sighed, shimmying down Sherlock's body and stroking his cheek softly along the delicate and freshly exposed skin of his abdomen, "I do like the sound of your voice. So masculine and velvety. It goes straight to my cock when you talk, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's breath hitched and he could feel Jim smile against his skin as he got to work on his trousers, quickly undoing his belt buckle and pulling his zipper down with his teeth. Sherlock tried to hide the fact his back arched about an inch from the ground at the sight, as he felt warm breath through his boxers cascading over his cock, now aching for more direct attention. He threaded his fingers into Jim's hair and tried a risky move: pushing Jim's head down as he thrust up in a hint that was difficult to ignore.

This did not go down well. Jim quickly sat up, slapping at Sherlock's hand as he did so.

"Don't touch what you can't afford, doll," he said with a growl.

"Who says I'm paying for you?" Sherlock murmured, as Jim leaned back down to lick a wet stripe along the underside of Sherlock's cock through his boxers, pulling his trousers down further as he did so.

"Hmmm, well you might not be," Jim's voice had dropped now from its usual sing-song harmony to a dirty hum, "but others do. Just not for a hard and dirty shag. I think you'll find the talents for which I'm solicited are a lot more..."

"Murderous?" Sherlock finished.

Jim flashed a demonic grin as he sat himself up, "Oh baby, _yes_! But don't tell me you don't just _love_ it!" Jim growled with renewed vigour as he yanked Sherlock's trousers and boxers down his thighs in one fluid stroke before tossing them off to the side.

A shiver of unease fluttered through Sherlock's frame as he lay clothed only in his unbuttoned shirt with a psychopath considering him from above, hazy with lust and practically eating him alive with his e. Jim quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock's astounded, yet terrified expression before rising to stand, feet either side of Sherlock's hips. He locked eyes with the detective before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulling them all the way down to his ankles, stepping out one leg at a time before standing up to full height once more to throw the shorts over his shoulder.

Sherlock swallowed hard as Jim fell to his knees to lie between Sherlock's thighs, pushing his naked form flush against Sherlock's before forcing fingers into unruly curls. He tugged hard to force Sherlock's head back so he could lick nonsense shapes into the creamy column of his throat.

"Mmmmmm, ooooh yes," Jim moaned theatrically, how does it feel to be my little bitch, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Jim," Sherlock asserted, but Jim continued.

"My whore, my little slut, completely mine to take when I want and do with whatever I please," Jim's words were tumbling out of his mouth as his unprepared cock began to push insistently at Sherlock's hole.

"Jim."

"Mine to fuck and take and _use_ however I want. Completely at my mercy-" Jim took hold of Sherlock's calf and pushed it hard up to sit around his back at his ribs, "I suggest you grab hold of your ankles, darling, because you're about to kiss your pretty arse goodbye."

"I don't think so," Sherlock groaned before channelling all his strength into shoving Jim off him. Jim looked surprisingly delighted at this development as Sherlock pushed him forcefully onto his stomach, "Up. On your hands and knees," he said shortly.

Jim gasped theatrically at this, but nevertheless did how he was told.

"I am not your bitch, your whore or your little slut," Sherlock reached for the nearby chest of drawers, returning with a small tube he had strategically placed there earlier. As much as Sherlock would have loved to take Jim the same way he had intended to take _him_, he wasn't foolish. Their encounters had become increasingly fleeting and he wasn't about to accept a sub-standard fuck out of spite. "I am not yours to take as you please. I am not yours full stop," he began to slick up his cock, swallowing down the groan that bubbled in his throat at finally giving his, now painful, erection the attention is so desperately desired, "Now you will stay there and you will shut up and you will damn well do as you're told."

Another indulgent moan tumbled from Jim's lips, "Oh, yes, you _are_ a dirty boy when you want to be, aren't you?" he drawled, his head falling to limply sway between his shoulders, the muscles in his back dipping and flexing as he moved, "Are you going to spank me if I misbehave, teacher?"

Sherlock couldn't see Jim's face but he was positive that his characteristically filthy smirk would be plastered across it. He nudged Jim's thighs further apart with his knees before placing himself firmly behind him, trailing his fingers along his back and down across the curve of his arse, nails leaving angry red marks in their wake. The man beneath him shivered and turned his head to stare at him with eyes blackened by lust as he surveyed his prey.

"Getting sentimental?" Jim said before allowing his head to fall again, "Just get on with it, will you? I haven't got all day. Places to go, things to do, people to murd- _Ahh!_"

That shut him up.

Sherlock, growing tired of Jim's typically sporadic impatience, took hold of Jim's hips and in one clean stroke was buried to the hilt inside him, his hipbones pressing pleasantly hard into the familiar curve.

A breathy groan conceived right in the depths of his throat escaped Sherlock's mouth as his fingers twitched at Jim's hips. He couldn't move, couldn't even think, his brain working only to observe the tight heat that had enveloped him. This sensation never failed to silence the both of them.

For Sherlock, it was this very moment that kept him coming back. This moment of blissful equilibrium where everything else around him faded to black and all that was left was his heart hammering in his chest and his cock buried deep inside a man that was the epitome of everything he had spent a lifetime secretly trying not to be. Fucking Jim gave Sherlock some sort of unethical satisfaction, as if he had somehow conquered an enemy that never really existed in a war that would forever be ongoing.

"Fuck..." he finally managed, shifting his weight on his knees and watching Jim's breathing continuously hitch as he moved and shifted behind him, providing nowhere near enough friction for any sort of pleasure.

"Yes, anytime now, whenever you're ready," Jim said breathlessly, but with the hint of sarcasm ever present in his voice.

"Shut up," Sherlock spat before snapping his hips back and thrusting back in mercilessly, drawing the first genuine moan he'd heard all evening from Jim's lips. It worked its magic quickly, kicking off a full body shudder that was difficult to recover from, but he managed... Just.

"That's more like it!" Jim growled, his fingers flexing for purchase against the floor beneath him before letting out another shamelessly loud moan as Sherlock began to establish a pace.

Sherlock had always expected Jim to be somewhat noisy, but nothing had prepared him for the first time they had fucked. It was quick and it was messy and it was completely out of the blue. A hurricane of tongue and teeth, desperation and lust, blood and sweat and saliva with Jim pressed up against a Bathroom wall, _Dolce & Gabbana_ trousers around his thighs and Sherlock's hand rubbing obscene words out of his mouth with a hand on his cock.

The noises that poured out of that mouth could be heard throughout the entire block, and the thing that _really_ got Sherlock going was the fact that they were all completely genuine. Probably the only genuine thing about Jim. It was eerily beautiful, in a way, that he was allowed to see him so stripped bare as he bucked and writhed towards an explosive climax. Because climaxes were always explosive with Jim.

Sherlock pushed his fingers into Jim's hair, forcing his head down to the floor before pulling him back up flush with his chest, rousing a gasp from his lips. Sherlock's grip was hard enough to bruise as he held onto Jim's hips, his other hand sliding down from his hair to his throat, just brushing against it lightly, but with his intent to grip harder perfectly clear.

"Going to strangle me, Sherlock? Asphyxiate me?" Jim's voice was breathless and punctuated with each brutal thrust of Sherlock's hips, "You wouldn't dare, just look at yourself. All the control and no idea what to do with it. You're pathetic, but-"

Sherlock fingers clamped down hard on Jim's throat with blinding intent, but intent to do what? This wasn't the first time he'd found himself with his fingers pressing hard into Jim's trachea to shut him up... or otherwise. There was something quite telling about a man with so much power allowing himself to fall into such vulnerable territory. Sherlock often wondered what Jim got out of being man-handled, controlled and fucked like this. But it was hard to dwell on such things when you're balls deep in a man making noises that were so obscene they should be made illegal.

It was safe to say that sex with Jim often ran in the same pattern, but it by no means made the experience predictable. Jim did like control. Their sex would always begin with a fight for it. A fight that Sherlock would always inevitably win. Whether Jim actually let him win, or whether he genuinely won each time was a question that crossed Sherlock's mind often, the frustrating thing was that he was never quite sure.

That's the problem with geniuses, especially geniuses such as Jim Moriarty. They have the uncanny, yet completely unnerving ability to take everything you thought you knew about emotion, and turn it upside down and inside out. With Jim fact was fiction, and fiction was fact. Everything got turned on its head. Jim's walls were built higher than Sherlock's, which made him so much harder to read, but all the more fun to take apart like this.

A strangled moan suddenly escaped from Jim's lips as Sherlock loosened his grip, "Got something to say, dear?" Sherlock knew what his voice did to Jim when he turned it to liquid chocolate, and as usual the results were astounding. With new room to breathe, Jim gave a loud and wanton whine, pushing his form back as flush as it would go against Sherlock.

"Harder," he eventually ground out, he voice uneven and breathless, "You're not going to fucking _break_ me, darling. Fuck me harder, I want to feel your name burning on my _skin_ for _days_."

Sherlock groaned in Jim's ear at the sentiments, his cock twitching deep within him as he repeated the words in his head. He pushed him back down on his hands and knees before reaffirming his brutal pace, snapping his hips back and forth as Jim groaned beneath him. The psychopath was slowly coming undone, stumbling gladly towards his release, his head swaying, eyes pressed shut, mouth slack as sounds and incoherent words tumbled out of it.

Sherlock pressed himself down flat along Jim's back, one hand keeping hold at his hip, the other pushing Jim's hand into the floor. A twitch of Jim's fingers interlaced their hands completely as they both began to lose themselves. Sherlock could feel Jim pushing back for more, more contact, more sensation, as he slowed his thrusts to a slow grind of his hips.

Jim's reaction to this was divine; a loud and long, delicious moan fell from his lips as he arched his back into Sherlock before throwing his head back to his shoulder: an open invitation for Sherlock to sink his teeth in as they drove quickly to a synchronised climax.

Sherlock's breathing began to falter, as he loosened his mouths hold on Jim's neck, the sensations beginning to take hold of him. He pushed Jim's hand up the floor, and leaned down hard to get Jim onto his elbows, sliding the hand on his hip round to curl into a fist around his cock as he did so.

Jim pressed his forehead to the floor and balled up his fists, holding onto Sherlock's hand tightly, as his hips began to buck shamelessly. Sherlock timed his movements just right so that Jim was thrusting into Sherlock's hand with one movement and back onto his cock with the other, bringing him off relentlessly. He was becoming more vocal with every passing second until finally: Jim Moriarty let go, his cock pulsing underneath Sherlock's fingers, as he came in hot spurts across the floor beneath them. Jim's orgasm was the final sensation Sherlock needed as he squeezed Jim's fingers and thrust into him deeply one last time, tumbling over the edge of release with the psychopath, now wailing beneath him as the remains of his orgasm ripped through his body.

They froze panting and gasping for all but a moment until Jim pulled himself away and turned over, pulling Sherlock down on top of him and wrapping his arms around his neck. Their lips came teasingly close, as they panted hot breath over one another, limp, sated and fully satisfied in their immovable haze.

After long moments, Jim poked out his tongue to run it over Sherlock's bottom lip, as his breathing began to slow. Sherlock was hesitant to respond, but allowed himself to fall a little closer. Sherlock breathed Jim's air until he was dizzy from the carbon dioxide, then he breathed some more as Jim continued to tease his lips with his tongue, his eyes pressed shut and his fingers teasing the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"What are you doing?" he whispered finally, frozen in his position, but becoming entranced by this unusual development. This had never happened before, and he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.

Jim simply shushed him before pressing their lips together, neither opening their mouths, just a touching of lips that left Sherlock feeling confusingly warm. But Sherlock Holmes was a thinker and he could not be trusted to let this go.

"Jim." he said quietly, pulling back slightly.

Jim sighed and let his head fall back to the floor with a thunk, rubbing a hand over his exhausted eyes before pushing the detective off and standing himself up, kicking through their clothes on the floor aimlessly as he searched for his discarded trousers. Eventually, he found what he was looking for and shook them out before pulling a pack of cigarettes from the pocket.

Sherlock watched on his back, leaning up on elbows as Jim put the white stick in his mouth and lit it before pulling his trousers on minus boxers. He pulled them together and fumbled with the buckle, all the while puffing on the cigarette hanging loosely between his lips.

"You know I don't like you smoking in the house," Sherlock said softly, looking up at the clearly disgruntled man with post-orgasmic disdain.

Jim simply huffed a short breath before removing the vice from his lips to hold it between his fingers, tapping the ash carelessly wherever he pleased. Sherlock simply watched as the man set the cigarette back between his teeth to pull on his shirt. His hair was delightfully ruffled and his shirt collar still sticking up as he pulled on his jacket, shirt still unbuttoned.

Sherlock sniffed before stretching across the floor for his shorts, pulling them on quickly before rising to his feet.

"I suppose you'll be off now then," he said shortly, considering Jim like one of his most volatile experiments.

Jim simply smiled a sickly sweet smile, before flicking his cigarette into the fireplace. He smoothed his hair, tucked in his shirt and buttoned up in almost record timing, looking almost every bit as pressed and proper as he did when he arrived earlier than night, the occasional crease in his clothes the only giveaway that anything untoward had happened.

Jim turned to leave without another word, resting his fingers on the handle of the door for all but a second before turning to face Sherlock, his eyes telling of a thousand calculations.

"You know you'll never fuck him like you fuck me, don't you?" he drawled, his eyes skittering across the floor before skating up Sherlock's creamy body to pierce his eyes with their intense power.

Sherlock flinched. He didn't need to ask how he'd known, he didn't need to wonder why he'd said it; he just knew.

"You knew what this was, Jim." Sherlock refused to allow Jim to goad him, but he couldn't hide the hitch in his breathing as Jim began to cross the room back to him, sliding his hands over his almost bare hips to link at the small of his back and pulling him in close, looking almost fondly up at him. Sherlock remained stony faced in his silent sentiments. They had both gone into this with unspoken, mutual rules that they had thus far abided by.

Jim raised his head to press a kiss into the curve of Sherlock's jaw, "Yes, darling," he whispered into his skin "Just sex. Of course." He murmured before backing away with a wink and pulling open the door.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Sherlock said suddenly, folding his arms and nodding towards Jim's boxers in the corner of the room.

Jim simply smirked, "Think of it as a parting gift, sweetheart," he said with a wink before kissing the air and leaving in the blink of an eye.

Sherlock stood silently for long moments, before blinking hard, giving himself a mental shake and piecing himself back together again.

He would be seeing him again next week, after all...


End file.
